The Waiting Room
by Jack E. Peace
Summary: She had promised him that she had stopped.


_Disclaimer: _None of the characters belong to me. Song inspired by the wonderful song "What Sara Said" by Death Cab for Cutie.

_A/N: _Angsty. That's me right now. ;)

The hour was late, but he figured that had nothing to do with the silence of the hallway that surrounded him. People went to hospitals in the middle of the night, emergencies didn't stop when the sun fell. But people also died in the middle of the night, lost before the sun rose again to promise another day, and he attributed that to the silence. The only sound that reached his ears was the click of the second hand as it traveled across the face of the clock mounted on the wall high above him. No one else seemed to notice the sound, or at least no one focused on it the way that he did; everyone else was focused on something else, anything else to keep them from remembering the reason that they were there in the first place.

But he couldn't seem to forget, try as he might and he wasn't really trying. He couldn't forget because he knew he'd never forget the way that it had felt to come home and find her. A smile, a greeting had died on his lips when he saw her there, shaking on the couch with her eyes nearly turned up to their whites, her fingers curled into useless claws of sorts, her boat coated with a thin sheen of sweat. The brown paper bags of takeout had fallen to the floor and he stepped on a carton of rice without even realizing it as he rushed to her side, her name flying from his lips in a panicking whisper, an accusation. Her shoulders, her body convulsed beneath his hands and he couldn't tell if she was aware of his presence.

Briefly, he couldn't figure out what was wrong with her, his mind zipping at a million miles an hour, trying to find the cause of her ailment, trying to find something he could fix. For if there was something he could fix, then he would be able to make everything better again. He would be able to patch everything up again. She always loved the way he seemed to be able to fix things, at least, that was what she claimed. "How do you do that?" She had questioned in a groggy tone the week before, as they lay in bed together, listening to the rain as it beat against the windows, soaking the streets beyond. And they were so comfy cozy together in the process of waking and sleep. "You always make everything better." Her tone was soft and silly he had smiled.

But he wasn't smiling now, not as he held her tightly, trying to stop her shaking, knowing that it was impossible, trying to discover what had caused this in the first place. If he only knew…he would fix it.

Then he had seen it. The needle on the floor, cracked and broken, discarded, no doubt knocked aside by the spasms. He noticed then, too, the rubber tubing, tossed casually on the table and he wondered where she kept it hidden so he wouldn't find it. And he wasn't sure what he felt then, hurt and betrayed and lost and confused. Faced with something he couldn't fix.

The shaking had only continued and nothing he did seemed to help, no matter how many frenzied, tearful promises he had made that she was going to be all right. The ambulance had arrived much too slowly for his liking, though he figured any amount of time would have felt like a lifetime then. With him, standing uselessly in the middle of the loft, holding her in his arms and trying not to drop her, trying not to cry, trying to be strong because she needed him to be that way.

She had stopped shaking in the ambulance but that hadn't seemed to please the paramedics. They seemed to do everything so fast, he thought, as he hid in the corner and tried to be out of the way, rocking with every bump and pothole. The paramedics didn't seem to notice the bumps, circling around her, saying things he couldn't quite understand because they spoke of medicines and milligrams. He only watched, hoping that every second that paced and fretted and injected would help her. Even though he had his suspicions against the latter, seeing as that was why she had ended up in her in the first place.

And all the while he wasn't sure why he felt so betrayed. She had promised him that she had stopped. Now he knew better.

He had been left behind when they reached the hospital and he hadn't even been able to hold her hand as the paramedics passed her off, slipping her onto a stretcher and racing her down a stark white hallway that seemed to go on forever. He'd only been able to follow after so far before some portly nurse had instructed him to take a seat in the waiting room. With all the other people waiting for loved ones in the emergency room. With everyone else waiting for the fate of their word to be delivered by someone that didn't know. He had taken his seat. There had been nothing else to do.

The magazines were outdated, years old, just like the coffee in the pot that he didn't want, just like the food in the vending machines that he didn't want to eat. Instead, he sat and didn't call anyone, he didn't want to see anyone, didn't want to speak to anyone, didn't want to bring anyone back to this place that only held bad memories. If he brought the others, he would be reminded that this was only a place where people went to say goodbye when the words had been put off long enough. The only person he wanted to see was her, he only wanted to hear her voice.

His nose burned with the sanitary smell that permeated throughout the building and it didn't bode well. The building seemed silent, aside from the ticking of the clock; even the television set was muted. Another news report on another riot. No one was watching the newscaster, their eyes all focused on the horribly tiled floor. No one moved, no one spoke. Despite the fact that the waiting room was relatively crowded, everyone was alone.

A nurse rounded the corner and everyone looked up. He couldn't keep himself from doing the same, knowing that she had come for him, hoping the news was good, knowing it wasn't going to be. There was no such thing as good news anymore. Their eyes met even before she opened her mouth to speak. "Roger Davis?" He didn't bother to openly acknowledge her.

Because in doing so, he would have to admit that he was ready to hear what she had to say. Ready to hear the bad news, to have his fate sealed, to know that there was no going back. There was no escaping the fact that he would be going home alone that night and every night after that.

And he wasn't ready to hear that. Wasn't ready to acknowledge the truth. He was all ready in the waiting room. He decided he wanted to wait a little longer.


End file.
